Syllables
by doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Glenn can't help but be turned on by Daryl Dixon's voice.  Written for the kinkmeme.


**Author's Note:** Just a little something written for this prompt on the kinkmeme: _Glenn is turned on by Daryl's_ voice. It's short and a little rough but I hope that you lovely readers enjoy it nonetheless. xo.

**Syllables.**

Glenn was sure that he'd liked Daryl better when he didn't talk to him. Well, that wasn't exactly true; before he started talking to him, Glenn figured that Daryl was nothing but a rough around the edges redneck, more focused on catching squirrels than on human contact. Back in those days, Daryl hadn't talked to _anyone_ unless he was cursing at them or telling them to stop their damn complaining.

So maybe, it wasn't that he'd liked Daryl better when he didn't talk to him because he'd kind of thought Daryl was an asshole. It was more that things were _easier _when Daryl didn't talk to him, because when Daryl actually stopped trying to win the world's biggest jackass award and started hanging around him, Glenn actually started paying attention to his voice.

That voice. He'd never really noticed it when Daryl was running his mouth at people, throwing in a few racial slurs for good measure. But when he actually started saying things, actual useful words, Glenn found himself enraptured, ears lingering over every syllable, the way they flowed from Daryl's lips in that goddamn Southern drawl that he really shouldn't have found so attractive. It didn't really matter what words they were; hell, one day, while Daryl was detailing his hunting plans, Glenn actually kind of spaced out, just letting himself get lost in the way Daryl pronounced his words, putting emphasis on some in a way that rather made Glenn's face get really, really warm suddenly.

But despite the fact that every time Daryl talked, Glenn would feel his entire body fill with heat, he could control it. All he had to do was apply the same focus to someone else's voice, whether that be Andrea or Dale. After only a few seconds of concentration, his temperature would be back to normal and he'd be able to actually pay attention to what was important.

Then Daryl had said his name. He might have said it before but Glenn didn't think so; for the past month or however long, he was certain that Daryl had only referred to him as chink or yellow boy or whatever inventive term he'd borrowed from Merle. But when he actually said it, _Glenn_, drawing the last bit out so it was more like _Glennnnn, _he knew that the concentration trick wasn't going to work any longer because all he could think of was how it would sound if Daryl moaned his name, extending the syllables even further as Glenn touched him.

After that first occasion (to be honest, Glenn swiftly forgot why Daryl had _actually _said his name), things quickly started to spiral out of control. Apparently, saying it once had been all it took to snap Daryl out of his bad habit because from that point onward, it was all _Glenn _this and _Glenn _that_,_ not a racial slur to be heard. While Glenn certainly couldn't complain about the lack of insults, hearing Daryl say his name at least a dozen times a day, dragging it out like it was a piece of candy he was savouring, was almost too much to bear.

All it took was one night for him to snap. He'd managed to snatch a bottle of wine the last time he'd gone scouting and it had been thoroughly enjoyed, passed around until they were practically licking the cap. He'd been just the slightest bit woozy, enough to make him stumble slightly as he made his way back to his tent. He hadn't even noticed that Daryl was following him until he'd pinned him up against a tree, breath thick with the scent of strawberries. He'd said one word, just _Glenn, _but it had been enough to make Glenn lunge forward and kiss him, fingers digging into his shoulders.

He found out a few things that night. The first was that when Daryl moaned out his name, fingers pressing into his scalp, he extended his name even further than he'd imagined, the word slurring into a curse.

The second was that, judging from the way his collarbone got bit when he said _Jesus, Daryl, _he wasn't the only one who had a thing for someone's voice.

Yes, he may have believed that life was less complicated when Daryl didn't talk to him. But, he reflected as another moan of Daryl's name got buried in the man's neck, he never had been one to take the easy route.


End file.
